Road Trip
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House and Foreman are stuck in a hotel after the car they get in an accident on the way to a conference. A response to a prompt by Queenzulu on lj.


"I hate you."

That was how it started… and, for that matter, how it ended.

"I don't care."

"I really, really hate you."

"Uh-huh."

"I hate you like Jennifer Aniston hates Angelina Jolie."

"…"

"I hate you."

"Right."

"You don't think I hate you?"

"Well you certainly don't hate saying it."

"I hate you."

"Hate cuddy. This was her idea."

"You could have said no."

"Not without getting my parking space moved to the E lot."

"You could have dealt with it."

"You could have done your two damned hours of clinic and neither of us would have even had to think about this in the first place. Or, hell, made Kutner do them."

"…"

"Hah."

"I hate you."

They pulled onto the interstate, and House pulled a shirt out of his backpack, balled it up, and used it as a pillow against the window.

Foreman smirked, glancing over at him a few times, as he drove.

"I hate your car. And your music sucks."

"You have this song on *your* iPod. You were playing it in your office like two days ago."

"I hate you. And your car."

"What's wrong with my car?" asked Foreman, actually curious as to the answer. It was a nice car, a small-ish sedan, with five seats and a nice interior.

"It's *tiny*."

"No it isn't. You're just freakishly tall."

"Your goatee is too long. And you're bald."

"You don't even know how to shave. The razor's supposed to go along the skin, not half an inch away from it."

"At least I'm not bald."

"You're getting there."

"You're there."

"Yes, thanks to a razor blade, not because I'm middle-aged."

"I'm not middle aged."

"The mid-life crisis bike begs to differ. As does the receding hairline."

"I hate you."

"Go back to sleep."

"I hate you."

House didn't go back to sleep, even though he rested his head against the window again.

It was late, and starting to rain.

He shivered a little and turned the heat up a bit.

Foreman turned it back down, "there's a blanket in the back seat."

"What's wrong with turning the heat up?"

"Trying to save gas."

"What the hell kind of eco-freak are you?"

"The kind that gets an even suckier salary than you do."

House snorted, and reached into the back, finding a thick fleece blanket.

He pulled it over himself, and sighed, looking out the window again.

It was almost dark out.

House opened his eyes.

It was freezing.

He raised his head off the window.

The car was stopped, and the lights were off except for the ones on the dashboard, which gave a pale glow to the surfaces inside the car.

He looked to his left.

Foreman was there, seat reclined.

"What's going on?"

Foreman sighed, looking at him, "look outside."

House looked, then back at Foreman, "it's pitch dark out there, moron."

"Open the door."

House pushed it open. There was a distinct cracking sound as he pushed, and his arm was showered with bits of ice.

He slowly stuck his head out. It was not pitch dark. The car, however, was entirely covered with ice. As was the rest of the world. And, now, his hair.

He eased back into the car, and pulled the door shut.

"I hate this."

"Yeah. Mind tossing me a corner of the blanket?"

"Yes."

"You're an asshole."

"You shouldn't have stopped driving."

"I passed three jackknifed tractor-trailers, two overturned cars surrounded by emergency vehicles, and one overturned *police car* before I pulled over."

"I hate… damn."

"What?"

"I don't hate you."

Foreman looked at him, blinking.

House had reclined his seat, and turned onto his left side, so he was facing Foreman.

"Then why do you keep saying you do?"

"Oh, I mean, I do… I just can't say I hate you for doing something mildly less than idiotic."

Foreman snorted, looking at the ceiling.

"But you need to start driving again."

Foreman looked at House again, "what? Why?"

"Because the engine might not start if it cools down too much."

"No."

House sighed, rubbing his forehead, then snapped, "just *do* it!"

Foreman shook his head, "no."

"Start the fucking car!" yelled House.

Foreman stared at him.

House continued to rub his forehead.

"What… is it?" asked Foreman, slowly. He knew House's moods and moods swings, and this wasn't one that he was familiar with.

"Just… start it."

Foreman nodded, slowly, and turned the key. House seemed to be genuinely upset, not just out to be irritating.

They sat, until they were low on gas, and Foreman decided to try again driving.

They drove for a while, at maybe ten miles an hour.

Then, suddenly, a car was coming around a bend, and Foreman swerved to avoid them.

They spun out, and crashed into a tree.

Foreman got out of the car, stumbled a few feet, and gagged.

"You okay?" asked House, slipping and sliding his way over after putting the ice tip he kept in a pocket of his coat on the end of his cane, gripping Foreman's arm as he retched.

Foreman nodded, straightening and wiping his watering eyes, "yeah… just shaken up."

House had the decency to not berate him for crashing.

Given the state of the roads, and the fact that they were out of the way and fine, there probably wasn't much point in calling 911.

They got back in the car, because it was still warm, even if no longer running.

Foreman sighed, after a while, "we really need to share the blanket."

House opened his eyes, and shook his head.

Foreman glared, "House…"

"I hate you. But I think we need to share heat as well as the damned blanket."

Foreman sighed. He'd been thinking the same thing, but they'd have to lie on the same seat, and that would be rather… intimate… for House's usual comfort.

But he climbed over anyway, because there was more room without the steering wheel, and laid on the seat, trying to not touch the older doctor.

It wasn't working. He kept almost falling off the edge of the seat.

He sighed, and scooted closer so they were lying front-to-front, touching, their noses almost in each others eyes.

They both dozed.

"Foreman."

Foreman opened his eyes, "what?"

"Do you still want to be anywhere but at Princeton Plainsboro?"

"No."

"What changed?"

"Mostly? What happened with Amber?"

"…what?"

"You knew the deep brain stimulation could have killed you. You had what? Maybe a fifty percent chance of surviving it? At best? But you still did it because Wilson asked you to."

"So… even if you are turning into me, it's not as bad as you thought it would be?"

"Yeah."

"That's stupid."

"I really don't care."

Foreman's breath is nice on his face.

By the time morning came, Foreman had a hand curled in House's shirt, and House had his arm over Foreman's waist.

They had gotten there while both of them were asleep, and they had yet to remove them.

They waited for the sun to melt the ice.

Suddenly, there was a tap on the window, and someone stuck their head in the back passenger window, "are you alright?"

They sat up, looking.

A police officer.

"Yeah," said Foreman, "I spun out driving during the night…"

The man nodded, "do you have gas? The roads are starting to clear."

"Yes, but the engine won't start."

The officer nodded, "I'll call a tow truck."

"Thank you," said Foreman.

The head withdrew.

House pushed the passenger side door open, and they climbed off the seat, still close to each other.

The sight was incredible.

Everything was glistening and white in the sun.

House shivered, and grabbed Foreman's arm, as he slipped a little, "let's get back in the car."

Foreman looked at him, "are you seriously afraid of cold?"

"What? No. I just…. really don't like it."

Foreman reached into the car, got the blanket, and wrapped it around both of their shoulders, pulling House close, "I want to see this."

House glared, "just get back in the car."

"No."

House glared, "I hate you."

Foreman pulled him closer, and they stood, looking over the beautiful morning.

"I know."

House shifted closer, their bodies almost as close as they had been in the car, cold, and sighed.

Foreman looked at him, realizing that House was genuinely uncomfortable, not just being whiney.

"Let's get back in the car."

House nodded, and they climbed back in.

Eventually, the tow truck arrived, and House basically had to sit in Foreman's lap, because the tow truck only had one passenger seat and even though Foreman weighed less, House couldn't take that kind of weight on his bad leg.

Foreman didn't particularly mind.

House kept telling him he hated Foreman, and Foreman didn't particularly mind that, either.

They finally made it into town. The tow-truck guy dropped them off near a hotel, and gave them the address of where he was taking Foreman's car to.

House was limping more heavily—and unsteadily—than usual.

Foreman gripped his arm when they came to a patch of ice, and House, other than telling Foreman he hated him, did not protest.

They managed to get across the ice, and across the street to the hotel.

There was only one room left, and it had one bed and no couch.

Foreman said they'd take it anyway, figuring he could sleep in a chair or something, and they made their way to the room.

Their bags were still in the trunk of the car, realized Foreman, as House crawled onto the bed, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Oh well.

He went to take a shower.

When he came back out, dressed, House was still asleep, but now on his back.

Foreman looked around.

There was one chair, a straight-backed wooden one, by the desk.

Well he wasn't going to sleep on the floor…

House cracked an eye open, as the bed dipped.

Foreman, off on the other side of the bed.

He closed the eye, and went back to sleep.

He didn't particularly mind sharing a bed with Foreman.

Foreman yawned.

House's arm was over his waist.

House seemed to like doing that, in his sleep, or something.

He laid there for a while, because House looked pretty peaceful in his sleep.

House did eventually wake, and Foreman pretended to just be waking up as well.

But House didn't yell, or even move.

His eyebrows came together, in a sleepy expression of confusion.

"I don't feel very good…" he mumbled, into Foreman's shirt.

Foreman groaned.

That was all they needed, for House to get sick.

He'd already called cuddy and told her they probably weren't going to make it to the conference, and she had been annoyed, but understanding.

House groaned a little, moving various parts of himself to see how stiff he was.

After considering for a moment, he realized that most of how crappy he was feeling was being stiff, sore, and cold.

He shook his head, at Foreman's questioning look.

"Just from spending the night in a car, I think."

Foreman nodded.

House got up, and went to take a shower, which would probably help with the stiffness and aching.

It did, although his leg was still being a bitch, and he felt better by the time he limped out of the bathroom again.

Foreman was sitting on the bed, reading what was probably things to do in whatever town they were in.

House sat on the bed with him, and tried to read it, but the type was tiny and it gave him a headache, so he looked away.

"I hate this," he muttered.

"I know," said Foreman, absently, "there's a natural history museum. Might be able to pass a few hours there."

"See if there's a strip club or something."

"Uh," said Foreman, cringing internally at the thought of spending time surrounded by scantily clad women and House, "no."

House snorted.

"Well… whatever, we should get breakfast… lunch… what time is it?" he looked at his watch, "lunch. I'm hungry."

Foreman closed the book, "sounds good to me."

House got up, and Foreman got his coat and put his shoes on again.

They went to the front desk, and the guy there told them that there was a diner a block away.

They ate, and House watched Foreman from across the table.

"Why did you start the car?"

Foreman looked up from his fries, "what?"

"You knew we could crash. Why did you start driving?"

"Because you wanted me to, remember?"

House waved his hand dismissively, "if asked you to put a quarter in the jukebox over there, you wouldn't do it. Why did you do something that was dangerous just because I asked you to?"

Foreman realized that House was probably trying to figure out if his freaking out in the car made Foreman pity him, or something like that.

Foreman shook his head, "you were upset, and you tend to make other people miserable when you're upset. I just didn't want you to start yelling at me."

House nodded, looking away.

Foreman sighed, "what… why were you freaking out?"

House looked back at him, and sighed, sipping from his soda, then answered, "I don't like cold, and I don't like dark."

Foreman nodded, and ate another fry.

House seemed glad he wasn't going to push, but not enough to stop him from stealing a few of Foreman's fries.

Foreman didn't really care.

They did end up going to the museum, and House perched himself on various benches, as Foreman walked around the exhibits.

Foreman came back over, after watching a video, and sat on the bench next to House.

House looked at him, "you done?"

"You know, you could try to enjoy this."

"…"

Foreman sighed, "what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Right. Seriously, are you just feeling really crappy, or what?"

House looked at him, and rolled his eyes, "what the hell does it matter?"

"While I'm sure sitting and sulking is loads of fun, getting sulked at isn't quite that much of a delight, and I'm stuck with you until my car's fixed. So will you either tell me what's going on, or get over it?"

House sighed, tapping his cane on the floor, "just… yeah, feel crappy."

Foreman nodded, getting to his feet, "guess we should get back to the hotel, then."

House shook his head, "nah."

Foreman shrugged, and went back to walking around the exhibits.

House watched him, curiously.

He didn't get why Foreman put up with him like he did.

Sure, sometimes Foreman lost patience, but he put up with a hell of a lot more than even Wilson did.

House sighed, and got to his feet, limping after Foreman, who was standing by an exhibit.

Foreman looked at him, "what, you want to leave now?"

House shook his head, "stiff."

Foreman shrugged, and looked back at the exhibit.

"Why are you reading a one-paragraph summary of how the brain works? You're a neurologist."

"Three paragraphs."

"What the hell difference does that make?"

Foreman shrugged, "we're in a museum. It's what you're supposed to do."

House looked at him like he was an utter moron.

Foreman snorted at his expression.

"I'm just bored."

"There are less boring ways to be non-bored."

"What can I say? Apparently I'm boring."

House nodded, "yes, in fact you are."

Foreman rolled his eyes, and walked towards the next exhibit.

House limped after him, and perched on the edge of the display.

"If I'm so boring, why are you following me around?"

"I hate you."

Foreman snorted, watching House sit.

House scratched his jaw, looking around the museum.

"How long is it supposed to take to fix your car?"

"Three weeks."

House groaned, shaking his head, "great. Long enough to be a total pain in the ass but not long enough to fly home and have it shipped."

Foreman nodded, "well, at least for me. No reason you can't fly back."

"On the other hand, it's kind of hard for Cuddy to make me do clinic duty halfway across the country."

Foreman snorted, moving across the hall towards another exhibit.

House watched him, then reluctantly slid off the edge of the case and followed him.

"So I'm more interesting than clinic patients?"

"No. Just less likely to puke on me."

Foreman snorted.

House started poking at some of the buttons on the display, and various sounds emitted from it.

Foreman rolled his eyes, slapping House's hands away, "what are you, five? Feel like I'm baby-sitting you…"

House smirked.

Foreman yawned, "think I'm ready to leave."

House nodded, and stopped fighting to push the buttons.

They walked out towards the exit, but House ducked into the gift shop, leaving Foreman to roll his eyes and follow him in.

Foreman watched House dig through a pile of plastic dinosaurs, then looked at the books.

He was paging through a book, when something hit the back of his head.

He turned around, rolling his eyes.

"What?"

"Let's go."

Foreman sighed, putting the book back, and following House out of the store.

"You've got a bag… what did you get?"

House glanced at him, and shrugged, "nothing."

Foreman rolled his eyes, pulling out the bus schedule.

House leaned over his shoulder, tilting his head.

"One in five minutes."

"No there isn't."

"On that route there is," said House, pointing.

"We're going back to the hotel."

"Nope," said House, cheerfully.

"Yes. We are."

"No. We aren't."

"There's a TV."

"Well, you're not gonna let me watch anything interesting on it."

"By interesting, you mean porn."

"Yes. Come on. Just one place."

"Just one place with you could be no end of trouble. Where do you want to go, anyway?"

"Bar."

"…the hotel has a bar."

"Not one with nearly naked people who will take their clothes off if you pay them well enough."

"House. I am not going to take you to ogle at naked women."

"Okay, fine," pouted House, "a bar with no naked women."

Foreman nodded, grudgingly, as the bus pulled up.

They ended up in a gay strip club, and Foreman felt really stupid for not phrasing his objections better.

Because, as bad as sitting in a strip club with House and people he had no attraction to taking their clothes off in front of him might have been, sitting in a strip club with House and people he had definite attraction to take off their clothes in front of him was much, much worse.

House watched Foreman, smirking.

Foreman tried to not watch the man dancing at the next table over.

Unfortunately, the other option was watching House smirk at his obvious discomfort.

"Why are we here? Why not just a regular bar?" asked Foreman, tiredly.

"Because a regular bar wouldn't make you squirm. You're fun to watch squirm."

"Right. Pay your tab. We're leaving."

"Nooo… come on. We're taking the bus, we can get wasted."

"…"

"Come oooonnn…."

Foreman looked at him, "I think you already are wasted."

"No, I'm not, actually."

"House, we're leaving."

Foreman got up, and gripped House's arm, not physically lifting him, but pulling hard enough to make it uncomfortable for him to keep sitting.

House pulled his arm out of Foreman's grip, sighing, "I can't walk."

Foreman stopped, sitting on the edge of his seat again, "I thought you said you were okay now. You're that stiff?"

"…stiff. Yeah."

Foreman stared for a moment.

Then snorted, and shook his head.

"Perfect. Go take care of it."

House rolled his eyes, and got to his feet, limping rather more noticeably than usual.

Foreman ran his hand over his face, and took a sip of his beer.

House came back a while later, and sat down again, looking lazily cheerful.

Foreman smirked, as House leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.

"Can we go know?"

House shrugged, and gripped his cane again, getting to his feet.

Foreman started to get up.

Then stopped.

House, partway to the door, looked back at him with a raised eyebrow.

Foreman sat back down.

House blinked for a moment.

Then tilted his head, and came over and sat down at the table again.

"Nice…"

Foreman glared, and rolled his eyes, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

House snorted, and nodded.

Foreman got up and walked to the bathroom.

House waited for a moment, then got up, and went to the bathroom as well.

He lifted his cane off the floor, and walked as evenly as he could further inside.

He leaned against the wall, smirking, at the happy noises coming from the stall with Foreman's feet in it.

This had been the most fun experiment he'd done in ages.

Foreman came out, and rolled his eyes when he saw House there.

House smirked, and followed Foreman to the sink.

Foreman washed his hands, and dried them, watching House lean against the wall in the mirror.

He frowned a bit, "House?"

House raised an eyebrow, "what?"

"You hard again?"

"No. Why?"

"You're standing weird."

"It's called a bum leg."

"Yeah, but…"

House sighed, and shrugged, admitting, "been a bitch since we spent the night in your car."

"I think you've been a bitch a lot longer than that."

House tossed a napkin at Foreman's head, smirking, and left the bathroom.

"Just proving my point!" called Foreman, rolling his eyes.

He waited a few moments, then followed House through the bathroom door.

House was back at their table, downing the rest of his drink.

Foreman put enough cash to cover the bill on the table, and they headed towards the exit, weaving their way through the crows.

They had almost made it, when behind Foreman, someone knocked into House's cane, or bad leg, or something like that, because he heard a grunt, and cursing, and some apologies and yelling.

He closed his eyes, briefly, then turned around, and moved back through to crouch on the floor next to his boss.

"House."

House stopped yelling at the guy who was apparently responsible for his fall long enough to glare daggers at Foreman, and gesture for Foreman to hand him his cane.

Foreman did, and held it upright for him, while he pulled himself up on it.

House then acted very mature, and punched the guy who had tripped him.

Foreman managed to break up the fight before it really got started, and pulled House away from the other man.

House pretty much shoved his way out, and stumbled a few feet in the cold winter air after leaving the warmth of the club, dropping his bag on the sidewalk.

Foreman stood by the door, watching him bed over double for a few moments, then straighten, and stumble another two feet to lean on the parking meter, gasping for air and dropping his cane.

Foreman approached, cautiously, and House looked at him as he reached the older doctor's side.

"You gonna be okay?" asked Foreman, plainly but quietly.

House nodded, and lowered his head, still trying to catch his breath.

Foreman wasn't sure if it was the fight or the leg that had put him in this state.

House finally straightened, and tried to bend down to get his cane, but ended up on his ass on the slush-covered sidewalk, his bad leg either giving out or slipping out from under him.

House sat, elbows on his knees, head down, for a while.

Foreman crouched, taking care to keep himself out of the slush, and offered House a hand.

House slapped it away, glaring at him.

"I don't pity you," said Foreman, quietly, "but all our extra clothes are in the car, so it'd be better if you didn't get completely soaked."

House looked at him, and finally nodded, gripping Foreman's arm.

Foreman got to his feet, and House pulled himself up with Foreman's help.

Foreman bent, and got House's cane, and handed it to him.

Nothing more was said until hours later, after House had slept for a while, and a bruise had blossomed on the side of his face.

Foreman put some ice in one of the plastic bags that had been covering the cups in the bathroom, and covered it in a washcloth.

House nodded, taking it and pressing it to his jaw.

Foreman sat on the bed next to him.

"You gonna tell anyone?"

"That you get turned on by going to a place meant to turn people on? Other than disproving the rumor that's going around that you're a eunuch, I don't see how it would be worthy of gossip."

"There is no such rumor."

"Yes there is. I know because I started it."

"I hate you."

House smirked, "I love it when you say that."

"I really hate you."

House grinned, broadly.

Foreman sighed, "why did you get into that fight?"

"I was pissed off, okay?"

"You get pissed off, you abuse people verbally, not physically. What was different that time?"

"It *hurt*," said House, simply.

Foreman sighed, and shook his head, "you've taken things out on people physically *once*. When you were seriously screwed up from withdrawal, facing jail… not just in some extra pain from a fall."

"I knocked Wilson in the shin with my cane."

"And he wasn't hitting a sore spot?"

"Shut up."

Foreman snorted, "not a chance. So what part of falling set you off?"

"You're so turning into me."

"Bad argument. I already said that doesn't bother me anymore. You fall, you get upset, but not like that. So… what, you only lose it when you fall in front of a lot of gay people you don't know?"

"….no."

Foreman looked at him.

Then he got it.

"Since when does you falling in front of me make you lose it like that."

"It *doesn't*."

"Then why were you so upset?"

"It doesn't matter!" yelled House, suddenly, tossing the icepack at Foreman, "leave me alone."

Foreman sighed, nodding, and handed House back the icepack.

House did not take it.

Foreman shrugged, and put it on the bed, "it's late to go out for dinner. We can get room service and pick up our stuff at the auto place tomorrow."

House nodded, grudgingly, "you're not sleeping in the bed tonight."

"Where else am I gonna sleep?"

"Well, either on the floor, or see if another room's opened up."

"I checked when I got the ice. There isn't. And I'm not sleeping on the floor."

"Yes. You are. Or in the chair, your choice."

"House. No, I'm not."

"There's an extra blanket in the closet over there."

"Seriously. I'm not sleeping on the floor just because you fell and I happened to be there."

"No… not *just*. But you are sleeping on the floor."

Foreman folded his arms, "I am not sleeping on the floor."

"Yes you are."

"You had absolutely no problem last night."

"Last night I didn't know there was a chance you'd grope me in my sleep."

"Right. 'cause I'm the juvenile one."

"Yet you don't find sleeping next to me weird."

"True. Because I know *I'm* not gonna grope you. Because I have no interest in touching you."

"You're sleeping on the floor."

Foreman opened his eyes.

The breathing sounds that had been steady when he had fallen asleep were no longer calm and slow.

House's breathing was fast and erratic.

Foreman sat up, and got onto his knees, looking at his boss over the edge of the bed.

House was curled on his left side, his back facing Foreman.

Foreman watched him for a few moments, then laid back down, and tried to go to sleep again.

House hadn't wanted him to sleep in the bed because then he would have had a front row seat to something House did not want him to see. Just like House hadn't wanted Foreman to see him after he fell.

Well…Foreman didn't want to see that, either.

So he didn't mind so much, having to sleep on the floor.

Foreman goes by himself to get their stuff out of the car, and House sleeps well past when he gets back.

Foreman sits on the edge of the bed, and shakes House's shoulder.

House refuses to wake up, and Foreman rolls his eyes, leaving him be.

While he's waiting, he checks out the contents of the bag from the museum gift shop.

It's a small telescope, not very powerful, but not too cheaply made, either.

In House's hands, anything can be a conductor for mayhem, but as things go, a telescope seems fairly innocent.

It's past noon, when House finally wakes up.

Foreman knows he probably didn't sleep very well until the pain calmed down, so he doesn't comment.

They eat lunch at the hotel restaurant, and House seems less weird than he was yesterday evening.

Of course, it's House, so saying he's less weird today than yesterday is like saying the ocean is less wet if you take a bucket and scoop up some water out of it.

But at least he's less upset.

And that's a good thing.

Foreman sits across from him at the table, staring vaguely at his food.

It is not particularly appetizing.

It isn't *bad*, exactly, just…bland.

House looks at him, sleepily.

"I hate you."

"What?"

"I hate you."

"So you've said. Why are you saying it now?"

"Because it's true. Do I need a reason to say something true?"

"In this case? Yeah."

House rested his chin on his palm, "I'm going back to the room."

He got up, and limped out.

Foreman rolled his eyes with a sigh.

By the time he got back to the room, House was asleep again, curled on the bed.

The telescope was set up by the window.

Foreman sat on the other half of the bed, and picked a book out of his bag to read.

House slept soundly for a few hours.

Foreman was glad. House had still looked tired when they went down to eat, and a tired House was typically a cranky House.

House yawned, slowly uncurling on the bed.

Foreman looked at him, "have a good sleep?"

House shrugged, sleepily, rubbing his face.

Foreman frowned, watching the older doctor, "you take something?"

House looked at him, "why?"

"You're acting kind of weird."

"No. I didn't take anything."

Foreman shrugged, "kay."

House got up, "I'm gonna take a shower."

Foreman nodded, and went back to reading his book.

House got up, and limped into the bathroom.

Foreman got up, and started to search through House's stuff.

He found nothing other than vicodin. Which is strange, because House is acting almost…relaxed.

Foreman raised his head, as he heard a yell and a thump from inside the bathroom.

House looked up, as Foreman pushed the door open.

He was sitting on the floor, towel hurriedly thrown over himself, wet.

"What happened?" asked Foreman, raising an eyebrow, "you hurt yourself?"

"No. There's no hot water. I got in and jumped back out and ended up on my ass."

"…okay?"

"What?"

"Most cripples don't *jump* out of bathtubs just because the water's cold."

"Shut up."

Foreman shrugged, and turned the water off.

House got up, painfully, pulling himself up on the sink.

Foreman handed him his cane, and looked away when the towel started to slip.

House picked up his shorts, "why are you still here?"

"Because I'm waiting for an answer."

"Go the hell away."

"Seriously, House. Sensitivity to cold can be caused by all kinds of things that can get very bad very quickly."

House blinked at him.

Foreman thought this was a medical problem. Being nosey about that was significantly more forgivable.

"I'm not sensitive to it, I just don't like it. And unless you think a dislike of cold that I've had since I was a kid is suddenly going to turn into a medical issue…?"

Foreman left.

House shook his head, and put his pants back on, then limped out into the main room.

"Is there a pool?"

Foreman looked through the hotel directory, "yeah, on the first floor. I'm not letting you go hang out with women in bikinis unsupervised, though."

House rolled his eyes, "I hate you."

"I hate you, too."

They both got their swimming trunks.

House's were unusually long, reaching all the way down to his knees.

Foreman didn't ask why, as he already knew, given the way House held the edge of them down when he got into the water, making sure they covered the whole of his bad thigh.

House sat for a moment, then slid under the water, and grabbed Foreman's ankles, pulling them together.

Foreman slipped out of his grip, and House surfaced, grinning his ass off.

Foreman rolled his eyes.

House in the water was everything House wasn't on solid ground.

Fast and apparently cheerful.

Foreman isn't, as he doesn't know how to swim.

So he stands in one place, and tries to fend off House's gleeful attacks, because apparently House thinks he's seven years old, as that's about the amount of maturity he's currently displaying.

House finally gets bored with trying to knock Foreman over, and swims to the other end of the pool, gets out, and limps to the diving board.

Foreman watches, a little curious.

There's no lifeguard on duty, so he's not going any deeper than he already is, but he kind of enjoys watching House dive off, get out, and dive again.

House apparently enjoys doing it, since he does about a dozen different things, before losing interest.

Then, after the last dive, House doesn't surface.

Foreman panics, thinking something is wrong, and splashes towards his boss, getting chlorinated water in his eyes, which makes him shut them, which makes him slide under, and in his panic, he breathes in.

Then, suddenly, there's arms grabbing him, and pulling him above the surface of the water.

He's clinging to House's shoulders, coughing uncontrollably.

House gets him back into shallow water, over to the edge of the pool, and he climbs out, with hands and knees on the concrete, still coughing and gasping for air.

A hand reaches up, and checks the pulse in his ankle, since it's the part of him that's closest, then withdraws.

"How much did you breathe in?"

Foreman's coughing too hard to answer.

Water sloshes over his feet, as House pushes himself out of the pool.

House makes him sit up, and listens with an ear pressed to his chest, as he tries to breathe evenly and stop coughing.

"There's still some fluid in there. Keep coughing."

"I'm fine," says Foreman, almost breaking into another fit of coughing as he speaks.

House slaps him on the back, which makes him let out his breath in an uncontrolled rush, which sets off a violent series of coughs.

Finally, he manages to cough up all the pool water, and House hands him a towel from somewhere, and sits by him again, at the edge of the pool.

"You can't swim," observes House, as Foreman dries himself off.

Foreman looks at him, "you think?"

House shrugs, still looking cheerful, but more subdued than before.

Foreman notices that House's swim-trunks are clinging to his bad leg in such a way that Foreman can see the outline of a large depression that has to be the scar from the debridement surgery.

He doesn't say anything, though.

He likes cheerful and slightly manic House much more than pissed off and violated House.

He finishes drying off, and gets up, and House, who is still all wet but doesn't seem to care, walks with him back towards their room.

Foreman notices that House's limp is noticeably less pronounced than usual.

The water must have done his bad leg some good.

House randomly goes off in another direction that isn't towards their room, and Foreman rolls his eyes and follows.

House finds where he's going.

It's the hotel workout room.

He turns to Foreman, "get on one of the treadmills."

Foreman blinks for a moment.

Then rolls his eyes, "House, I'm fine. I breathed in some pool water. You don't have to test how well I can breathe like this."

"Shut up and get on the damn treadmill."

Foreman looks at House, blinking.

Several guys who are there look over at them, curiously.

House pushes Foreman towards the treadmills.

Foreman sighs, figuring that this will get over sooner if he just does was House wants him too.

He runs for fifteen minutes with no trouble, and House finally seems satisfied, if a little morose.

Foreman wonders what happened to House's good mood, but shrugs it off, and House follows him back to the room.

Foreman unlocks the door, and holds it for House.

House goes into the bathroom to change back into his clothes, and Foreman does the same in the main room.

Even though their little adventure to the pool ended rather badly, both of them feel pretty good, thanks to the endorphins from the exercise.

Foreman wonders if that was why House was a bit more bearable after the ketamine, thanks to the runs and skateboarding, and all the exercise.

He makes a mental note to make House use the pt pool at the hospital the next time he's in a really foul mood.

House lies on the bed, yawning, and turns the TV on.

He flips channels until the remote slips out of his hand, and he dozes for a while.

Foreman turns it over to a cooking show, and watches until he too falls asleep.

He wakes up with House's right leg between his, and House snoring into his neck and shoulder.

He rolls his eyes, and starts to push the unconscious diagnostician off, but stops, since… well, it's kind of nice.

House stirs, and Foreman holds his breath.

But House just reaches his arm across Foreman's chest, and nuzzles a bit more firmly into Foreman's clavicle.

Foreman smirks, and runs his hand up and down House's arm for a few minutes, which makes House murmur happily in his sleep.

It's House's right arm, so the muscles are extremely definitely well defined… although, come to think of it, so is the rest of House, so maybe it doesn't have all that much to do with the cane.

He doubts House lifts weights, so maybe the pool is a more regular fixture in House's life than he thought.

He definitely looked at home sliding through the water.

And…sad…watching Foreman on the treadmill.

Foreman sighs, understanding House's unhappy mood after they left the workout room.

It's funny… he never thinks of House as experiencing loss.

Even though he knows he does.

Foreman rubs his hand up the arm, along House's shoulder, and down his back.

House only pushes his body more firmly against Foreman's and makes a soft, happy sound.

Foreman smirks, and closes his eyes to go back to sleep.

House is awake and reading when Foreman wakes up.

Foreman is curled on his side, facing House.

He just lies there for a while, watching House read, as he lets himself wake up slowly, since it's not as if they have to be anywhere in a hurry.

House pushes his reading glasses up on his nose, and glances down at Foreman, who yawns.

House snorts at his ridiculously calm and relaxed expression.

Foreman stretches, and House looks away because it's *hot*.

Foreman gets up and goes to the bathroom.

When he comes back, House is holding the restaurant directory, and Foreman leans against the pillow next to him, and reads over his shoulder.

House must still be tired, since he sort of leans against Foreman's arm.

They finally pick out a place to go eat at, and then neither of them move.

House looks at Foreman, and says, quietly, "why are you leaning against me?"

Foreman looks at House, "you leaned first."

House looks away.

Foreman sighs.

House looks back at Foreman.

"And you didn't push me off."

Foreman shakes his head, "no, I didn't."

House smirks, and lunch is summarily forgotten.

Foreman watched lazily, as House sat in front of the telescope.

He got up, and walked over, crouching next to House's chair, "what are you doing?"

House looked at him, and got off the chair.

Foreman sat down, and looked through the telescope.

It was focused on a… adult video store.

He looked at House, wearily.

House shrugged, "what?"

"Are you trying to watch the movies through the paper over the windows?"

House rolled his eyes, "no. Just watching who goes in and who comes out."

Foreman looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

House shrugged, "everybody who goes in there is alone at the end of the day. That's the only thing they've got in common."

Foreman blinked for a moment. That was a remarkably poetic reason to be spying on a porn store.

He wasn't sure he entirely believed it, but he was pretty sure it had some bit of truth in it, so he didn't say anything more.

They eventually did go out for a late lunch.

It was raining when they finished eating, and that was over the ice that was still melting—despite the fact that it was like sixty degrees out. March was strange.

House stood in the doorway, looking supremely unhappy.

Foreman gripped his elbow, silently, and House looked at him.

Then nodded.

They stepped outside, and House walked remarkably close to him, as they slipped and slid the two blocks back towards the hotel.

They were both soaked to the bone by the time they got back, having left their coats in the hotel room.

House was miserable, and Foreman followed him into the bathroom, that time.

House sat on the edge of the tub, and sighed.

"I'm going to take my clothes off."

"So am I."

House looked at Foreman, silently.

Foreman sighed, and sat on the edge of the tub right next to him, to his right.

He slid his hand along House's bad leg, skimming over the scar, on the way to more fun places.

"I'm finding nothing wrong here."

House snorted, and reluctantly unzipped his pants.

Foreman assisted in the removal of them, took a good look, and grabbed the sides of House's face.

House's hands clenched in Foreman's shirt.

House murmured happily, as Foreman ran his hand over House's back.

"How-come you don't like cold?"

"…how come you can't swim?"

"I'm not scared of swimming. You're scared of cold."

"I hate you."

"I know. I hate you too."

House smiled into Foreman's neck.

"I hate you."


End file.
